Hey all! Remember like six months ago or something when I posted something about Butch's totally unofficial birthday that was completely made up? Well it's Francis' turn now!
And since according to my time zone and calendar it's September 23, today is his official totally made up birthday!
I was going to make this a good birthday present for HK, really I was. But it's HK, so ANGST. ANGST ALL OVER THE GODDAMN PLACE.
God forbid Franny gets a break on his birthday. No sir, he'd gotta have crisis always and forever.
I'm so sorry, Francis, I do like you, really. I just can't stop. Butch will kinda make it better.
Again, like Butch's birthday fic thingy, there aren't really spoilers for Product Placement, save for them being more comfortable around each other and some mannerisms and thought patterns. Also a couple. HALLELUIAH.
As far as spoilers for the fic in general – just angst on HK's behalf and Butch trying to work through it. Also gay affection between aged- up Hustler Kid and Butch.
Enjoy!
The end of the month, particularly swing months (those months between seasons where supply and demand suddenly shifted to completely different areas) were always terribly busy for hustlers. There was the matter of cataloguing, ordering, returning, and profit margins to deal with. A great deal of math algebra or trig or even calc couldn't even compare to, and somehow vitally more important. Often it caused headaches and irritability and often groans of despair and the occasional manic grin when stumbling across a mistake that left you in the black rather than in the red. It also resulted in a great deal of preoccupation, distraction, and self-imposed isolation when the shop was closed up. More often than not, the last week of swing months resulted in a startling halt of social life in favor of making sure one didn't bottom out and belly up. So when Butch bounded into Francis' garage in the middle of itemizing his return stock, nearly skipping and chewing on a toothpick, he went unnoticed. Butch had to throw something at him to get his attention, which was met with a glare, which was countered with a laugh and a flipped bird, which was returned with a mildly relieved smile.
"You seem suspiciously happy." He drawled, thumbing through folders and picking out papers, which he then attached to his clipboard and marked up. "Did you frighten the football team again?"
"No, better." Butch slid up to his easily and kissed his cheek and lips. "Today's kinda special."
"Oh?"
"Don't be like that." Butch laughed and punched his side lightly. "I can be kinda flighty sometimes but I know my shit."
"I know that, I know."
There was a moment where they stared at each other – Butch expectant, Francis mildly amused – and then the hustler turned back to his work. Butch had continued to stare; waiting for something that Francis had no idea of no matter how many fleeting glances he cast his way. As glad as he was to see Butch, he was sort of really preoccupied, and while he appreciated the company the storyteller's stares were making him kind of nervous.
"So…?" Butch started, leaning forward with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet.
"So what?"
"What do you mean what?"
"I'm not sure. What are we talking about?"
"Today Fran. Geeze. I told you I remembered. You don't gotta yank my chain about it."
"I'm not." He insisted, turning back to his work "What's up?"
"You seriously don't know what day it is." Butch asked, incredulous.
"Of course I know what day it is. It's the twenty third of September, which means I've only got seven days to move ten boxes, and I'm very busy."
"No, Fran-" Butch spoke with an upset, quiet tilt that made the hustler lift his head, and in his line of vision was a very distressed looking storyteller. "I know all that, but… but you seriously don't know what today is?"
Never taking his eyes off his work, Francis did a quick mental calculation and flipped though his mental calendar. Did he break off some engagement? Was he late for something? It wasn't any anniversary, as far as he knew, nor was it any holiday or due date or celebration. He had been very busy – there was the possibility of something slipping through the cracks in light of keeping his business aloft. Instantly there was another jab of panic to join the several others that had been bruising him lately. He'd feel terrible if he'd forgotten something he'd already planned with Butch, and though it would probably dog him he'd plead to postpone. There was just so much to do. Butch would understand. So, in an effort not to sound desperate or worried, he clicked his pen once or twice, then faced Butch and attempted a casual if not slightly bratty response.
"Okay. Alright. I give. What's so special about today?"
Butch took a moment to answer, screwing up his face enough to offer a murdered smile that kept collapsing under its own weight before breaking the news to him.
"It's your birthday, Fran."
The hustler's brow furrowed. Was that all? This was what Butch was all worked up about? He'd seen Butch blow a fair few things out of proportion – not getting the first kick of a new ball, defending some book he'd never read, Halloween – but this just seemed silly. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten a date or promise. Butch was watching him helplessly while he considered how to answer, but he was busy and his mind was too heavily divided on other things to be anything but blunt, so he turned back to his work.
"So it is." His mind focused more on time lost, he simply shrugged and looked back to his clipboard. "Thanks for the reminder."
From the corner of his eye he watched Butch's smile falter and die, but didn't comment on it. He seemed to be floundering for something, hoping for a 'just kidding' or a 'aw, I'm glad you remembered'. He would receive neither, because all in all there was not a great deal of importance ever assigned to his birthday. In fact, he was almost certain his mother never wanted to speak or think of the day – she had always seemed to disappear. And since he wasn't young enough to illicit gifts and checks anymore, there was no real use to the day he could garner by doing the customary nothing, and so he kept working.
"C'mon man, it's your birthday!" Butch announced again, suddenly, almost manically "You don't know what that means?"
"I'd assume it means it's the day I was born." The hustler deadpanned, counting the tops of jars from where he stood.
"Noooo." Butch punched him in the knee, and Francis glanced down to spot him kneeling before him, grinning stupidly. "Well, yeah. It does. But more that that."
"Enlighten me."
"Birthday blowjob!" Butch announced happily, throwing his hands up in the air from his position on his knees, looking entirely too taken with the idea until Francis hadn't even bothered to crack a smile "No?"
"No."
"Aw c'mon. I'm good at them. You know that."
"I do. And I appreciate the thought, but I am busy, and you are sort of in the way."
Francis had to look back to his clipboard to avoid the hurt look on Butch's face. He wasn't sure the cause, but he was almost certain it had less to do with the refusal of the blowjob and a little bit more to do with the fact he'd accused Butch of being in the way. And he did feel bad for it – he wasn't always great with words that didn't involve some sales pitch. Especially now.
"Hey." He muttered, leaning over a bit, pecking Butch on the forehead. "Look, I appreciate it. Really. But I can't. "
"Bull." Butch grumbled, casually looping his arms around the hustler's neck, sandwiching the clipboard between them, letting Francis lift them both up to a standing position when he straightened himself out. "If there's any day you should take off it's this one. You work too hard and you need it. Just this one day – think of yourself. Be greedy."
"That's precisely why I'm working."
"Not that kind of greedy. Personal greedy. Time greedy." Butch raised his head. "Let me take you out."
"Butch-"
"No, really. It'll be great. Kinda cheap, but great. We'll go to dinner at some burger joint or a diner and a shitty movie we can make fun of and then you'll get your present and sex if you want. Like normal people – kids our age for a change. Whadya say?"
The pause following was pregnant with hope that Francis couldn't possibly live up to. Butch wanted far more from this day than Francis was able to give – he had so much to do! And, quite frankly, he had no will to indulge it either. It was a cute plan, and Butch had probably put some thought into it, but there was just no time, nor reason for any of it. He'd understand. He usually did. It was his birthday anyway – he could celebrate it whatever damn way he pleased.
"I'm sorry, but not today." He kissed Butch's brow once more, pointedly looking at the white stripe of hair on his head to avoid the look Butch was probably giving him. "Raincheck?"
"…Yeah Fran. Sure thing."
O/O
Considering his haphazard reasoning in the garage, Francis wasn't entirely surprised when it came back to bite him in the ass later that night. It was over a microwaved dinner of three day old pizza that it really began to nag at him, though he blamed it mostly on his stomach, wanting something slightly more substantial, even if it was stale movie popcorn or a greasy burger. At least it would have been fresh, and with better company than an empty house and taped up boxes.
But that wasn't until midnight, or thereabout, and he wanted to maybe put the day behind him, and wondered if it was too late to find Butch. But he tried calling him anyway, maybe to apologize, maybe to salvage the evening. Butch didn't answer the call, but texted him immediately after, telling him where he was and would continue to be for a little while, if he wasn't busy. Francis informed him he wasn't, but Butch more or less ignored him, hanging up before he could say much more.
Finding the storyteller was never a hard thing for Francis to do, though with the added dark and the mood he seemed to be in it was proving to be a harder task than normal. When he finally hit on the trail of smoke and mild terror, Francis was a little less than pleased to also find the dual-haired boy looking pensive and grumpy instead of his usual moonlit contemplation. It bothered him to see Butch off his game, and tried to think of ways to approach that didn't involve too much insult or a panicked punch. Butch spotted him before he could come up with one, but said nothing, idly breathing in the smoke from between his lips, letting ashes fall onto his boot and jeans. The hustler waited, and Butch waited, and Francis broke first, if not from mild frustration then the rush to fill the empty air. It had been so long since their last awkward silence.
"You look happy."
"Shut up." Butch muttered, lighting up and trying to look cheery "What's on your mind? Whatcha need to see me for?"
"I can't just want to see you? I thought we moved past that." Butch rolled his eyes and looked at him pointedly "And… I felt bad about hustling you out before."
"As well you should."
"I do."
"Well good." Butch's smile looked a touch more sincere. "Little past your day, but it don't matter to me. Let's do something."
This was what he'd been hoping to avoid. Butch too – or at least the less than receptive look Hustler was almost sure he was sporting. Francis took a deep breath through his nose and rolled his shoulders, raising his hands not in defeat or surrender but something like it, palms up, strong enough to hold a point, readying something to say. Butch was already sliding into counter formation – stepped off the wall, feet planted under his shoulders, head bowed toward him, waiting with a cigarette dead and trailing smoke, the ember staring at him. Despite the rebuttal he knew was already poised on the tip of Butch's expert tongue, Francis shook his head and stated his piece.
"I don't really want to do much of anything."
"Then why come out at all?"
"To make sure you're okay." He supposed he could have said 'to make sure you're not mad', but even if he was concerned, Francis was anything but desperate.
"I'm fine. I'm worried about you."
"You don't have to be. Really. We've been over this Butch. I just don't like to think about it."
"About what? You're birthday? You don't want to think about your birthday?" He sounded so terrified Francis nearly stumbled over himself to correct it.
"Not that-"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why don't you want to celebrate it, Fran? Seriously- I know I can't do much for you but- but I'm fucking trying and we've done less and been pretty happy, right?"
"No, Butch- look, you don't understand."
"You're right. I don't understand." Butch spat bitterly, all pretense he had earlier of being pleading dropped like the ashes from his mouth. "I don't get it, so enlighten me. Why the hell can't you let me try to help, to take care of you? You do so much for me, Francis. You do everything for me, so much I'm pretty damn sure I can't pay you back even I tried. But I want to try. So I figure today – yesterday, rather – of all the days I should try and be good to you, to give back just a little, you shoot me the fuck down. And I don't get it. Why can't you let me do this for you? Why can't you just give me a chance?"
Francis shook his head. This was really, really what he was hoping for this not to come to. It was just that he didn't need to. It wasn't important. He had better things to so than sit around and take up space. Besides, he'd never bothered with it before. Francis didn't see what the big deal was. It wasn't like he didn't think he himself wasn't important. Just the day. It was stupid to celebrate the fact he'd stuck around this long. Perhaps he'd think better of it as a token of survival. But it wasn't worth it to him. It was better to forget and just keep on.
His own logic confused him, but the main point was that he didn't want to think about it. And even that seemed flimsy to him, but it was his birthday, so Butch should back off. Even if it made him feel weird to disappoint the storyteller. Butch was already growing cold and distant, angry with him and the extended silence. As usual Francis' gut reaction was anger, but that didn't fit quite as well as it usually did. Defeated was probably the better word, even if it did feel foreign.
In some last ditch effort to save face he thought of pointing out how selfish Butch was being, how he was using his birthday as a way to get something only he wanted. But he'd feel even worse for being that guy. Butch was trying to be nice, and perhaps because he was upset he wasn't stating his argument as eloquently as normal, and to poke holes in his logic just seemed downright low. But he really didn't know what to say. No one ever bothered him so much about this before.
"I was busy." He muttered lamely, not looking up at him.
"Yeah well, whatever." Butch grumbled around the cigarette in his teeth. There was suddenly a box smacked against Francis' chest "Happy fucking birthday."
Butch hopped off the ledge and wandered off, shoulders hunched, lighting a smoke and remaining silent. Francis didn't stop him. He was too struck they the fact this was an actual fight they had just had, one that didn't involve fists, and one that he was almost certain he just lost. That being said he wasn't stunned enough to stand there stupidly for too much longer. Just until Butch turned and left him there, his eyes still on the ground. Then he shrugged and went home. There was nothing else to say at present, and it would have only been to old walls, anyway.
It took him a few hours to open the box. Not because he wasn't interested, but because he was busy, and sort of numb about the whole thing, so he put it off until his stock was checked and he had eaten and he took a shower. It was only then, in his bedroom half lit by his bedside lamp, sitting on the edge of his too-empty bed did he pick up Butch's present again, turning it over in his hands. He thought about letting it be, hoping it would somehow shrink in the night and be less important in the morning, if not downright blown over and gone. But he weighed it in his hands and shook it and turned it over a few times more. Then he opened it, and quietly marveled at what he saw.
Receipts, I.O.U.'s and handwritten slips paid in full, up front, in cash, with Francis' favorite candy bar on top.
It was the cheapest (though not literally, considering Butch's tab), most hastily thrown together gift he'd ever been given. A bare box tied up with twine, absent of even his name or a card to identify it or the occasion it was for. Butch didn't even leave his own name on it, but included every scrawled, half-hearted threat to his person for letting it compile interest and ruin his profits. The candy bar still had the price sticker on it.
And yet he had to stay down to accept the enormity of it, to process how this was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever received, to fight back tears and the feeling in his chest that usually meant he'd been a complete dick, and to think of a way to thank him for this. All of this.
O/O
Butch had avoided him for a day or so, but Francis, being Francis, was able to track him down with relative ease. Butch, being Butch, was less than receptive to him at first, going so far as to glower and blow smoke in his direction. But the hustler could see already that there was no malice behind it. Just that heavy disappointment that made him stoop a bit, as if he were psychically shouldering some burden. Francis' heart went out to him, feeling pity for both halves, hoping he looked contrite enough. Butch had tried so hard. Too hard.
Instead of the articulate, well thought out apology he had planned, Francis simply approached him, wrapping his arms around the lithe body. Sometimes he wished he could control himself around the smaller male, but feeling the thin arms creep up and engulf him made him reconsider. It was better to fall to pieces in a contained space. Less mess, less trouble afterwards. Butch provided those extra hands he needed to put himself back together properly, if not a little better each time.
For a little while he didn't say anything. He just breathed, all the words lost in the half dark of the early evening and the complete dark behind his eyelids. Francis was almost certain he didn't need to say it, because Butch had an unsettlingly refined ability to read into people, including him.
"How did you know that was my favorite?"
"You mentioned it once."
He couldn't help but smile. Butch never ceased to amaze him with the littlest of things. He'd be willing to bet that, cheesy cliché aside, the storyteller knew him better than he knew himself. And that made him feel safer, somehow. Knowing that someone understood him and how totally fucked up he was, and loved him anyway.
"I'm still mad at you." Butch told him "But only a little."
"You have every right to be. I'm sorry."
"I just wanted you to have a nice day." Butch mumbled. "You deserve some good. A break." He turned his mouth into Fran's chest and added, quieter "You shouldn't let her take that from you too."
"I know. I know."
"Sorry I was a dick about it."
"Don't be. I was worse. You were just trying to give a shit about me. I'm not used to it."
"Still?"
"Still."
"That's just fucking sad."
Butch sighed against his chest, pressing his face into the side of it. The Hustler tightened his looped arms and laid his head over Butch's, breathing steady, swaying a little. It was the closest he'd come to dancing with the other male without getting stepped on. Butch didn't seem to care, exhaling through his nose and pressing closer. For a moment Francis wished he'd called Butch over instead of coming to find him. He wanted nothing more in this moment than to take him to bed, to prove in the one way he was damn sure he knew how to prove he loved and cared for the little bastard. In lieu of that, he tightened his hold and tried to show him that way. Still physical, superficial, but it was all he could do at the moment, and Butch seemed to appreciate it.
Before he could stop himself, Francis was humming some old song and Butch was chuckling at him for it, willingly leaning into him and muttering something about him being old. In that moment, the hustler was sure they were okay. Fight over, made up. True to form, he would have liked to solidify it with sex, and after that with more reassuring talk and promises he was almost certain Butch would keep. But this was nice. And so was the way Butch spoke to him now.
"I'll try against next year. And it'll be great. So you'd better fucking take the day off work."
"I will. You have my word."
"You know you won't. Not on purpose. You'll forget." The storyteller pointed out, only to add (with some steadfast conviction Francis always admired of him) "But I'll make you remember."
"Of that, I have no doubt."
Sad but cute. ALWAYS WITH THE SAD AND CUTE.
Thanks for reading!